Until the Last Breath
by Corelli Sonatas
Summary: "I find myself wondering how everything right with life has so suddenly turned to dust...Every bone in my body assures me that, were Matthew alive, this would have been a much more beautiful day." Post-Series Three. Multiple points of view included.
1. Until the Last Breath

I am frightened by the morning sun.

It's funny, I have seen it rise time and again, but today there is something essential missing from its beaming light.

I know quite what it is, but I fear the very allowance of thinking in such a way. Our baby boy rests tiredly in my arms, and I do not even look at him. He is that fear I feel, and though I am so compelled to give him a sense of comfort in this darkening time, I cannot find the strength to look at him.

Perhaps those moments yesterday were a good thing: my husband cradling our newborn son in his arms, his bright sapphire eyes sparkling in utter amazement at the child we brought into this world...

But the strange part is that I cannot precisely remember the sensations of that set point in time. It feels so distant now, his body leaning against mine from the side of the hospital bed, his left hand holding onto my arm and his right stroking the baby's soft head. No, none of these memories have meaningful depth for me anymore.

You see, I was not prepared to remember them. I figured there would be far more memories further down the line... Further down the dreadfully wonderful line of Crawley history that will never be. And that stings my eyes the most: life at Downton will not be life at all without him.

His mother cautiously opens the hospital door, worried about waking the baby or me. I appreciate her so much despite this wretchedly emotional time, because she cares about me for the sake of Matthew. She smiles sadly, but her face breaks almost instantly. I am too wan to break at the moment; my exhaustion has caught up with me.

As she cries her way across the room, I wonder how this woman - strong as she is - can have the heart to continue like this, coming into my hospital room to tend to me and the baby so routinely. I know, of course, that nothing is routine to her anymore - just as the golden sunrise appears so foreign to me... Oh, how I hate the word 'foreign', for I had told him once so long ago:

_You sound rather foreign. Shouldn't you be saying things like, "You'll be up and about in no time?"_

He had responded first with a chuckle, and I can - for one thing - recall his hand rubbing warmly against mine, which was his way of showing me how enamoured he was with me. God bless his soul, he was the only one who ever could think me to be 'enamouring'.

Then he had proceeded thus:

_I'll do what I have to tomorrow._

Today is tomorrow. Matthew did not know it, but he never would be "tomorrow." He will never be the one to stand by as his son is christened, he will never be the one to hear our baby bawling in the night - and he would have been such a wonderful father, with his unwavering eagerness to be involved in the child's life...

And yesterday he told me this:

_You are going to be such a wonderful mother._

Isobel has the baby right now, and she is weeping as she stands and holds him to her chest, whispering between her uneven breath, "My dear...boy..."

That is what she used to call Matthew. I stifle the tears as I watch her cradling her grandson, and my chest wants to explode so terribly much. There goes another beautifully cursed phrase:

_I do love you so terribly much._

I whimper, and Isobel turns to face me. "It's nothing," I assure her, though she knows better than to trust my words at the present. I do not blame her. I am weary.

Within my chest I can feel a pressure - an unbelievingly excruciating pressure - that wants to explode. I realise now that I am fighting the inside of my body, which is determined to let me feel the reality of what occurred yesterday in the afternoon.

And the pressure is still building. I stare at my son - Matthew's son - and purse my lips so as not to cry, because I can sense a collapse more deadly than that damned car crash that robbed me of my husband, my dear, darling Matthew Crawley.

I explode, and the poor child reacts to my sudden and uncontrollable moaning and panting, my ugly sobbing, my guilty pleading for all this to be a nightmare from which I can instantly awaken. But this is real.

Isobel's comforting arms cannot comfort me; Mama's sudden bursting into the room to calm me down does anything but to calm me; Tom's assuring statements cannot bring me one inch towards being assured.

"Mary, we're all here." My mother is talking. I remain with my eyes shut to the universe, with my heart yearning for yesterday's pleasures, and with my mind dreading tomorrow's horrors. No Matthew... No father for my dear, precious baby... No life for me.

My love was my life, and without my life I cannot live. Matthew is dead. But yet another haunting prospect of the past:

_I will love you...until the last breath leaves my body._

Those were the very words of my deceased husband. So I am the last of us who knows what it is to love the other.

Because the last breath _has_ left his body, and that - aside from the myriad problems that I am due to face - frightens me.


	2. Return

I haven't seen him for two days: he, who was my comfort through the death of my beloved sister; he, who was my friend and my whole world. I cannot bear this, riding back to the abbey in a wretched car.

I hate cars, and I am not going home.

Home was Matthew; home was the life I lost within seconds, and never shall it return to me.

Mama has promised me that she would keep the child secure during the journey from hospital to house. I hadn't the power at the time to admit that my little boy has become a last resort for comfort. How ugly that sounds, "last resort." And the poor baby has done nothing wrong.

But did Matthew?

Isobel is beside me as I question the car crash - oh, the damned reason for my husband's loss of life! I can't help but wonder whether it had been his fault; ever since I heard the other driver's apology, I had the feeling that the truth was hidden. The man had spoken thus:

_Your husband was trying to avoid my car, as the road was quite narrow. I yielded to him, but it was too late…_

Had it been my husband's fault? If so…I cannot know what to think. Shouldn't the war have taken him, then, if a stupid car crash were the alternative road to death?

The sickening questions have begun to transform my countenance. "Mary, are you well? Your face is blue." Isobel squeezes my hand, which sits on my lap idly. I cannot bring my eyes to hers, since her pallid countenance screams from pain. I nod to her, indicating a false wellness.

I am not well. But there is no good reason to tell the truth; no, not now.

All nerves in my body jump when the chauffeur stops the car. I am about to ask why we have halted, for my vision has not yet scanned our surroundings. Soon the vehicle's doors open, and I still will not look outside. What out there will rescue me from this drowning, this merciless flood of piercing grief?

"My dear…" Isobel does her best not to upset me; I know that she wants me to exit the car, but my body is frozen against the leather seat and I cannot move. For a moment I believe myself to be utterly helpless and unable to get up, and so I stare at her.

Tears well up in my mother-in-law's sad eyes. "I know," whispers she. Her hushed tone of voice reminds me of Matthew, and I can feel my lips trembling. She embraces me.

A voice from outside the car puts an end to our moment of mourning. "Isobel?"

It is Mama. I know why she dares not to call my name. I believe she is afraid of me. My own mother.

But then again, I do not entirely blame her predisposition. After all, am I not now unmarried, just as I was in my more coldhearted days before the war? And I know why I changed, even whilst in my darkest hour.

Matthew had been there. He is no longer.

More words from Mama: "I am touched by the servants' kind gesture. They are all here to welcome the baby home."

"But not Matthew," I utter aloud. Both of my mothers look at me with such agony that I decide not to continue.

It is now that I realise the birth of my former self: that person has resurrected itself from the dead, in exchange for my darling Matthew's life.

God knows why these things work so unfairly.

Within seconds, my feet drag my unwilling body out of the car. The scene that meets my old eyes almost frightens me: every member of our staff - from Mrs. Patmore to Carson - stand reverently in formation, and all eyes are for the slightest second directed at my figure. I shudder internally, understanding that they must have all ached to see how I am coping with this change.

I wish I could announce that I am _not_ coping, but sense and Isobel's gentle hand on my arm prompt me to move forward.

I do not cock my head, but rather avert my eyes to find that Papa has the baby in his trembling arms. For a moment I choose to look at Anna, who is walking next to grandfather and grandson. She appears to be on the verge of tears; this comforts me in the strangest way, and I pick up the pace.

Each step rings in my oversensitive eardrums: _thud, thump, thud…_ I surprise myself for a minute, focusing so intently on the sounds I hear that I forget Matthew is gone. But that was a fleeting sensation; never can illusions remain.

Yet I feel as if all this is an illusion. Carson stiffens when I am a metre away. His face appears older than I remember, and the redness of the area beneath his eyes speaks wonders: he has been crying, and violently so. I wish to embrace him, to release all the disgusting emotions that result from such a time; but this is not the place for such behaviours.

Three cars have returned to Downton now; Edith and Tom and Granny exit the newly arrived vehicle, and I hear baby Sybil - who rests in Nanny's arms - bawl for her father.

It is now that I almost trip on the air and fall into Carson's arms; for I have aborted my trajectory to the front door. "Milady," stutters the butler abruptly, extending his arms to catch me if I lose complete balance. Part of me aches to admit that I already _have_ lost total control of myself, and that he should look forward to the callous, uncaring Mary Crawley who was so familiar to Downton a decade ago.

My little boy is stimulated by Sybil's fussing, and I turn as a mother does on instinct to find my baby. Papa is rocking the child in his arms, and for an instant we lock eyes. He opens his mouth, as if he wishes to express to me his apology for this damned mess. I smile at him - something I thought I would not do at such a time - and return to face the front door of the abbey.

I walk in gracefully, as if all is right with the world.

Nothing is right. I sense the once the place I call "home" examines my figure.

Then it accuses me for returning without him. I suddenly catch a horrible case of vertigo, and the last I can remember is Carson's sorrowful face peering down at me.

I am a small person in this world. No wonder my life is in pieces: it is but a grain of salt.

My son screams whilst I endure a period of faint consciousness.


	3. Half Myself Without Him

For one minute my ears are rid of the screams of my dead husband's soul. Everyone is now inside my childhood home, and Papa holds the baby tightly to his chest. It looks to me as if he tries not to let internal emotion free; I daresay he has but stifled a sob within the past two days. Nevertheless, he succeeds still with his concealment; I remain where I stand, before members of this family I call mine…and I am not yet home, despite the closeness of blood-relatives.

Anna is behind me now; I think to tell her - for her hands are shaking as they hold my baggage from the hospital - to take the bags upstairs, but I left my words outside. No, the needle sinks further into my lacerated skin, and I cannot bring to my mouth the strength necessary to speak. Where is Matthew, whom I expect at this moment to emerge from the library door, giddy and elated to see me?

I hear Carson whisper something to Mama. He lingers there for a moment, meaning to be useful should my dear mother lose the battle between tears and fortitude. She breaks. I revert to my former gaze, upon my son.

"Mary." I turn. Tom is there, now cradling my niece in his tired arms. Upon examination of my brother-in-law's countenance, I can see the effects of double-grief on him. I nod to him, for that is all I can - and all I must - do.

Tom waits a moment for the servants to pass us; they are no doubt eager to return to their comfortable lives. That fiercely mocks me: the fact that some people in this house have nothing over which to grieve. That some can "get back to the swing of things", unscathed by this death which should unnerve every sane being under this roof!

Perhaps allowing my anger to take such a hateful turn is immoral, but I do not care much at the present. "Are you to take her to bed?" I ask after long last, gesturing weakly toward Sybbie. My brother-in-law validates my assertion. He leaves me within seconds.

Who shall I burden now? I approach Carson apprehensively, but my tear-clouded eyes fail me: he is comforting a weeping Edith, and I dare not continue in my steps. If anything has the power to comfort me in the slightest at this moment, it is the sight of my sister's grief.

For five minutes I have been as sedentary as the telephone on the table to my right. I wonder what it must've been like: Carson's glee upon hearing that my child was born healthy, and shortly afterward his deep sorrow upon knowing that Mr. Matthew Crawley had died. About this grave thought, I can ponder no more; therefore I move forward, to the grand staircase.

And oh! how it haunts me. Not so grand does it seem: not so, at least as it had on the night of that deadly dance… God forgive me for allowing the last breath to quit on Lavinia Swire! That staircase, too, was the elegant carpet for which I - having been on the verge of holy matrimony - descended to meet Papa and Carson. Never shall I forget the sensations of such a moment as that; but these former sensations are nothing to me now, and I dismiss my thoughts on a bad note.

The first step mocks me; _Matthew is gone,_ it tells me, snickering. _Good riddance, too! The man from Manchester never belonged here; he is but a wisp of the past, insignificant, weightless._ As soon as the inanimate step of the staircase finishes its remarks, I realise that my own imagination has played an essential role in these words.

I sink. The ground is my saviour, catching me gently but firmly, disallowing me to continue through the floorboards and into the hellish place that I most likely deserve for my bad thoughts. What has come over me? The child I have borne is of Matthew's flesh and blood, and yet I criticise the father as if he had been a monster! I feel my face - still wilting onto the floor, a horrifying sight for all, I presume - and wonder whether the corpse of the former Lady Mary Crawley has already finished its regeneration. I cannot make a decision whether such has yet occurred; someone approaches me tentatively.

"Mary?" the voice calls. I seek its owner; and it belongs to none other than Isobel, Matthew's mother. "My darling girl." She surrenders herself to the floor, too, and I welcome her gentle embrace. "Oh, my darling girl…"

An epiphany comes over me: my mother-in-law has never addressed me so. I marvel at this, and yet the tears gush out from my blind eyes. Yes, they are blind: I cannot see Isobel's face.

Her touch is too real. If real it truly is, that means Matthew is dead.

He cannot be dead. Not my Matthew - not my other half, my happiness, my _life._

"It's too hard, isn't it?" the older woman asks me, though the question is more of a verification to see that I feel similarly. I do. Indeed, this is _much_ too hard. I would have laughed through childbirth, had I known of such pain as that which kills me now. Nodding and sobbing are all I perform for Isobel; she understands and hugs my head to her shoulder.

Now I crave my baby's touch. "Where is my son?" I question, looking round the downstairs level with a vigour much out of my control: much to the credit of motherly instinct. Isobel responds quietly:

"I think your father has him now. I will bring him here."

_No! Wait!_ I yell in my mind. Why have I become so mercurial? Now I dread the very thought of laying eyes upon my son, and all because I know that Matthew is gone! _Once your child is brought here to you,_ I muse, _all the beauty in that little one's presence will dwindle; because you seek a dual presence; you seek Matthew as well._

I hold in a cry whence Isobel returns with my son. The diminutive form of life appears so calm now, so complacent. I upset him with my arms, which now extend to take him from his grandmother. Whether the baby cried of his own volition or due to repulsion of me, I cannot know. Better it might be that I am uncertain.

"Shhh," I soothe my child, rocking him back and forth. My back is secured by the first step on that dreaded staircase, and I feel restored of my dignity, my worth. Matthew's baby boy stirs in my arms, and I persist with my efforts to appease him. In time, his tiny eyes shine of the very same tranquility with which my late husband always seemed to hypnotise me. That memory… It puts me at ease, and nothing could calm me more than this child's spitting image of Matthew. I manage a faint smile. No one notices it, I am sure.

The ascension is a heartbreaking moment for me; every step elevates me further from Matthew's height, and I know that there is no turning back from here. The second I meet the staircase's finale at the top, I can no longer proclaim that the last time I went up there, Matthew was alive. A horrid thought; and I practically trip on a step, yielding another minute of bawling from my son.

I have reached the second level, and my feet tremble upon the carpeted ground. Nothing can stop me from continuing down the hallway, for I am entranced by how familiar the environment up here seems. The more I walk upon it, the higher my hopes grow of finding a delighted Matthew here, opening his arms to accept me and my son.

And I am correct about one thing: all my surroundings are as they had been that day on which the family departed for Duneagle Castle. Yes, all remained intact; I balance the baby with one arm whilst the other hand strokes the walls and glosses over doorknobs.

But one thing - something much more than a thing, some_one_ far more valuable than any damned _thing_ that shall ever decorate these walls, these rooms - is absent from this place. And I know too well who it is, yet simultaneously know not precisely what it could be.

Because now I perceive that not one but _two_ people are lost from this world.

Matthew did not only take himself with me; or, at least, as much as he tried, he could not prevent the other from leaving with him.

That other thing is a part of me, a _half_ of me, and I fear it was the better part of my person.

I am, indeed, only half myself without him.


	4. Mournful Silence

_As told by Anna Bates_

I hold my breath as Lady Mary finds her bedroom. Her arm reaches out so tentatively to grasp the doorknob; I open my mouth to ask if she wants my help - with anything - but I rethink my actions. Her ladyship is probably on the verge of breaking totally, and I couldn't bear to be the cause of that.

She has always respected me far more than one should her lady's maid. Perhaps I am worth something to her, but I feel helpless now, as she has begun to weep in front of her bedroom door. I take a step forward. "Milady?" I manage, raising my voice only slightly above a whisper.

She turns to me, and I can tell that she wouldn't have done had I been someone different. "Anna," she bravely asserts, "would you bring my son's things from the nursery into this room? He will stay with me." Lady Mary can hardly look at her child; I feel deep empathy for this poor young mother and widow, and so I obey her immediately. Soon she is far away, and I am alone.

Though, somehow, I feel ever more upset about all this - despite the growing distance between her ladyship and me. Why her? What has she done to deserve such torture? And what of her son?

My eyes meet the interior of the nursery room, but I do not enter. Mr. Branson cradles Miss Sybil in his arms, and I cannot disturb the man's time with his child. But I am too late in hiding myself from Branson, and he calls me inside.

I imagine he wishes to speak about Lady Mary: what I should do to look after the grieving mother, how I should comfort her. After all, is not my duty to ensure the well-being of her ladyship? "Thank you for your unending support," he begins.

"It is my job, sir. I gladly serve her ladyship, and if there is anything -"

"I don't mean to give you instructions, or anything of the sort," confesses he. The child he holds looks at me, and I feel that same pressure in my chest that startled me when Mr. Matthew's death was announced.

"I just wanted to thank you for your help," Mr. Branson finishes. I commend him for imparting his gratitude with a soft smile, because I realise that I needed that. "You're very kind, sir," I return.

The young man stands up to put his daughter to bed. Then he looks back at me. "Please tell me if anything worries you…concerning Lady Mary. I know she and you are friends, but I can't let her forget that she has me, too."

"Certainly, sir." _Friends._ I smile sadly at him, internally rejoicing. Perhaps her ladyship truly does think of me so highly.

I return to the bedroom with the newborn's necessities in my hands. The poor baby! I hear him crying, and it sounds as if his mother cannot hush him. I decide to help her.

"Thank you," Lady Mary acknowledges after I've calmed the baby. He's a little version of his father, no doubt. As I hold the child, my lips almost reveal my momentary happiness - all until I hear an unfamiliar voice:

"I'm not going to make it, Anna."

I turn. The words have come from her ladyship's very mouth, and yet the sentence had not the slightest hint of "Lady Mary" in it. "Milady?" I gasp.

Her countenance is as fragile as a vase. I do not know how to respond, or what she means by "not going to make it". Still I stare into the blackness of her cursed eyes.

"I can't…" Lady Mary shakes her head softly first, but I tremble when her face breaks into tears; she crumbles, allowing the gentle bedcovers to consume her. Quickly but quietly do I set the baby down on the bed and draw near her ladyship. She seems to be comfortable with my closeness, and this surprises me. Not even his lordship had been able to achieve this nearness to his daughter.

Her lungs catch up with her sobs, and I rub her back. Cold, salty tears well up in my own eyes. "Milady, don't hold anything back because I am here. God knows how agonising…this is." I capture my good friend's attention. She forces a small smile whilst she squeezes my hand with hers. "Know that we're all here… All of us downstairs…we mourn with you. You are not alone, milady."

My mouth goes dry after my declaration; my eyelids surrender to the wet streams of grief that have for so long hungered to occupy my frozen face. These tears cheer me, because now I know that Lady Mary knows how this has affected me…how is has touched _all_ of us.

And if I should be concerned about anyone in her family suffering from isolation, this woman is the one.

Mr. Matthew's only been dead for a few days. I fear a year of darkness ahead.

…

Nighttime approaches incredibly quickly; I am not even through with my usual afternoon duties when Mr. Carson enters the servants' hall with his routine announcement.

But I thought too soon. "We will not serve dinner in the dining-room tonight," he admits. Thomas looks at me. I get the feeling he thinks Lady Mary is the reason for the change in usual custom.

"Instead, we will split up the deliverances of meals between all of us - except for the kitchen staff. Mrs. Hughes, you have the assignments."

"Yes, Mr. Carson." I gaze upon Mrs. Hughes' eyes. They tell me several things: not only has she been crying, she has been a mess for hours. When I look back to Mr. Carson, I notice a similarity between the head staff members.

"Are you all right, Mrs. Hughes?" I suddenly ask, just after most of my colleagues have left the room. Mr. Carson stares at me when I question the older woman.

"I'm not fine, Anna, but I don't think anyone can say otherwise right now."

I can agree with that. We part in mournful silence.


	5. Bless Her

_As narrated by Charles Carson_

Seldom have I paused to weep during my work in this respectable house, but the time proves critical. Lady Mary is in my constant thoughts.

She was, so long ago, the diminutive form of life nestled between her mother's chest and the blankets that covered her. I can't process this: I have known her since she was born. And not often does someone have the honour to watch that very same baby have her own child.

My first glance of them - I had gathered the servants to welcome the newborn and his family - had pierced me with the most intolerable pangs of reality. Mr. Crawley had not been there beside her ladyship and the child; he is dead, and I am still alive.

Why am I still alive when Lady Mary must plunge on without her husband? He was a young chap, a new parent, a man whose life with his wife had only begun. And all of us know how short a time he had with his newborn child…

I am presently in my down-stairs office, and the evening grows older the longer I linger in this room. I expect Mrs. Hughes will find me soon enough -

"Mr. Carson? Are you in there?"

Her very voice alarms me. Now I understand how imperative it is that I send the evening repast to members of the Crawley family. "Yes, Mrs. Hughes. Do come in."

We are not usually this formal - or this quiet - with one another. But times can change us, and if anyone understands that, my friend Elsie Hughes is the first on the list. Ever still do I admire her fortitude, as she opens the door to my modest workspace. "Have you…?"

"I wasn't sure whether you wished for me to do the right wing or the left," I admit. To an extent this is true: my mind's perpetual spinning has deemed it impossible for me to focus on this task. But above all, I fear that Elsie will send me to the left wing.

Lady Mary's bedroom is on that side. I fear her.

Why do I fear a person who - at one point in time - lay helpless in her mother's arms? I cannot say. To confess it wholly would only prove my deepest concern:

That Lady Mary will not return to the land of the living, and that I will likely suffer as she does.

"If you don't mind doing half of the left wing," my colleague compromises, "I can send Anna to do the rest of it." She smiles sadly, and I respect her wish to brighten up even this darkest-of-dark situations.

"Of course," I reply. "Have all the servants their duties for the evening?" Business always calms me down. I find comfort in discussing routine, and so - I imagine - does Mrs. Hughes.

"Just about," she affirms. "We're all a greater number of people than the Crawley family, so I believe everything will run smoothly. Has the evening post come in?"

This question sends me back to my previous and more negative thoughts. We will eventually have to send the notice of Mr. Crawley's death; when that happens, everything will be _real:_ no more wishing that all was a mere nightmare, no more hoping for an alternate ending to this heartbreaking story.

But I cannot think this is the end. Immediately I snap back into focus. "No, not yet… Not yet." Elsie soon realises the subject about which I had been thinking; she averts her gaze and gathers the strength to conclude our little conference.

"Well, I'll see to it that Mrs. Patmore has everything in the kitchen under control. Thank you, Mr. Carson." She is gone within seconds.

…

Anna's presence is the only one that greets me on the way upstairs. I carry three trays with me, and this work makes me feel more like a waiter than a butler. "Mr. Carson," Anna begins, "I wondered which bedrooms you wanted to take." I nod to her before considering my answer.

What have I been thinking? I cannot avoid Lady Mary; she is the closest thing I have to a child, a daughter…and a good father would not abandon his child.

"I'll take whichever bedrooms you assign to me…but I'd like to take Lady Mary's tray, if you don't mind…" Anna's face is on the verge of collapsing. Her lips tremble, but they look as if they are trying to smile at me. I assure her, "Whatever you'd prefer, I will do, naturally. You always see to Lady Mary's needs, and so it is your territory to claim."

"In fact, Mr. Carson," Anna manages above a whisper, "Lady Mary needs you more than anyone else right now."

…

This is the first time since the family left for Duneagle that I will engage in conversation with her. And what an eternity ago that was! I close my eyes before knocking on her death-possessed door, and I imagine various moments she enjoyed with the late Mr. Crawley. Her laugh is but a fantasy now; and yet I long to hear its joyful song. Her smile is a ghost, something that I might never see again - in that same form, when Matthew Crawley walked the earth. Her energy remains to be resurrected from the dead; her wit continues to run far away, and perhaps I shall never find it in her ladyship again.

All the qualities that made Lady Mary who she was seem to have vanished. But I am still here for her.

I knock. She does not answer anyway, but that will not stop me. Carefully I turn the doorknob and exert what little force an old man like me has left; her back faces me, and this alone intimidates my aged bones. "Milady," I hoarsely announce.

Silence. I try again: "Your ladyship's dinner tray is here."

This only gets the slightest twitch out of her. My daring legs step further into the bedroom, and they shake - uncontrollably.

I set the tray down on the unmade bed. The idea of being present in this room at such an hour causes me to stutter. "Er- I- I've put it on your ladyship's bed; I hope that is -"

"Carson, have you ever felt…"

Could it be? I look at her figure as it rotates just enough to face mine. "Have you ever felt," she tried again, "as if you were entirely defenseless? As if your world was collapsing in front of you, and there was nothing to be done for your safety?" Her eyes finally lock with mine, and I experience the sudden increase of my heartbeat. "I feel defeated. Nothing seems real, and yet everything happens before my eyes…" She steps forward, then stops. Her emotions are battling, I can tell. "I can't bear to be myself anymore…"

Now is my chance to console her. That is what I have come to do, is it not? But my mouth only drops to let barren breath escape my lungs. I am paralysed before her, and for this I am sorry.

Neither does her ladyship talk whilst I stand there, a speechless old fool. How can I consider myself a father to this young woman when all I do is watch her speak in pain? Finally I break the spell, confessing slowly, "I am so sorry…"

She covers her mouth. I stand motionless as her eyes sink and her knees buckle. Suddenly it hits me; I rush forward to catch her.

Amidst her weeping, her gasping for air, her consistent "Oh, Carson," I support her whole body - her head against my chest, her back being embraced by my arms - and let her grieve. Perhaps this is the best gift I can give her now; for I cannot know how long her family will allow this perfectly-human behaviour, and yet this poor, new mother and widow will not survive without it.

I rub her back, constricting my aching, burning tears. "Mr. Crawley loved you… I know he loved you until his very last breath."

She lifts her head to look at me. "It's funny… He told me that once." Her voice falters at the last syllable; I embrace her tightly, my own weeping now blending with hers.

"What am I to do, Carson? How will I raise him?" I feel for her at this moment; not until now have I remembered that she is the mother to a very young baby. I imagine that the loss of Mr. Crawley has struck Lady Mary to the ground…and she has only just given birth to her firstborn child, an event that should only have brought with the heartwarming feelings of perfection and completion.

Instead, my little girl grieves the death of a wonderful person - someone very dear to all who reside in this house, I am certain. I let ourselves sink down onto the bed, and she readjusts to position herself beside me.

I wonder whether there is anything to tell her, anything that might comfort her. But then I realise that such a painful - such a precious - moment must only be sung in silence. Her ladyship has had very little of this sort of time; after all, she lost her other half days - not months - ago. I cannot forget this.

When I finally leave the room that night, the hallway lights are out. The smallest part of me hopes for a brighter day tomorrow; and still, I know that this is far-fetched, wishful thinking. My heart melts as the newborn baby's shrill cry becomes audible from her ladyship's bedroom.

Bless Lady Mary's heart, that she clings to her dear little child.


	6. All These Are True

_As perceived by Isobel Crawley_

My son's body arrived today. My very own son. And now I stare at it, almost as motionless as it is lying here on the sofa in the library. Dr. Clarkson has come today; I am glad he is come, for he is my only comfort right now as I stand before dead Matthew.

_Why?_ Why has a silly car crash stolen my son forever? Matthew was not a careless, senseless person... So why do I hear that it was my little boy's fault?

"He...had one witness," the deliverers of the body reported today. My ears ring as I recall the dark-coloured tarp that had rested contentedly over my son as they'd brought him inside the abbey.

For Mary's sake I hope she never comes down-stairs today.

Richard Clarkson is a fine man. His hands are fixed on my shoulders, and he is so near that I hear his rapid heart-rate. He notices my attentiveness to this detail and whispers in my ear, "Would you like me to let you alone?"

I turn to look at him; the usually high-spirited doctor is hidden from my sight, as his features are all pale and distressed. "No, Richard; please do stay." He is surprised by my response - no doubt - but he raises no further question. Oh, how he causes me to grieve Reginald again!

...

Matthew was delivered to the abbey in the afternoon; it is now eventide, and I am still in the library beside my dead son. Now he and I are alone, which makes me rather uncomfortable. Never until now have we both inhabited the same room while only one of us was alive.

That very discomforting fear that had dawned on me earlier today has returned - in the flesh. Mary walks in - or rather, _storms_ in - with an abnormally scathed face and wroth tears flowing down her hot-pink cheeks. "Why had no one told me my husband is here?" she asks, approaching me as would a mother to her guilty child.

"Mary," I reason with her, "no one wanted you to feel discomfort by it. They all agreed -"

"Behind locked _doors_ they agreed," spat she. I experience the sensation of hairs rising on my skin. My daughter-in-law is without my grandson, thank goodness. Even as her presence frightens me, I worry about the cuts on her face. Continues she, "Of course no one ever thinks to _ask_ me how I feel, but then again: why should they? I _have_ no heart!"

"Mary, please," I urge, "sit down. We need this time together. The three of us. Please come here." I would not have encouraged her to draw nearer - as she was already within metres from me - but I sense her desire to leave.

She aborts her eye contact with me, and I watch her facial expression break when she looks upon my son for the first time. Perhaps she whispers his name, but I cannot make out the phonics. Her body sinks to the floor beside the sofa where my dear baby rests - peacefully, I must add - and her hands clasp his longingly. "You told me," she tells the corpse, "that you would love...that you would love _me_ until the last breath left your body. Well...here we are, my darling. I hope you're..."

She cannot finish. Her words must be some allusion to a past conversation between her and my son, but about this I am not certain. Her eyes finally trail back to mine - after several minutes of pure mourning for the child to whom I gave birth thirty-odd years ago. Now that I have her gaze, I question her as a mother would her precious child: "What has harmed your face, Mary?"

I presume my words have struck her like lightning, because she immediately fires up the defensiveness in her eyes and stares at me wretchedly. I cringe, as if I have done something wrong.

For a moment I regret being this woman's mother-in-law.

For a moment; but then I chastise myself and become the loving mother-in-law that Matthew would want me to be. "If it is the result of self-harm, my dear, please talk about it."

"I hate myself." She proclaims it boldly, and I have not heard her in such a dignified manner since before my son's death. "Why would you hate yourself?" I question softly. She considers whether to respond before meeting my eyes again.

"There is nothing...nothing _anymore..._worth loving about me." Almost in slow motion I stare helplessly as she digs her nails into the freshly-scathed regions of her face.

I watch her cringe. I see her tears drop, one-by-one. I wish I had the courage to tell her to stop. Why don't I? Why _don't _I?

How dare I let her suffer at her own hand! "Mary, you must stop that at once," I command firmly. The voice I used to possess has drifted away - perhaps with Matthew - and all the power I have left is my motherly instinct. Aside from that, I am powerless without my son.

Mary frees herself from her physical harm and studies her hands silently. "What," I ask her, "do you hope to accomplish with that?"

"I want to destroy this body," she announces. From this moment forward I know that she is not herself. Then I do start to wonder whether Matthew was the only good part of her...

"Why would you destroy God's body?" I wonder aloud, partly asking God himself why he has allowed my baby to die. We are all finite timelines, I remind myself, but Matthew's was cut too short.

"Matthew took with him the only chaste and decent part of me," replies my daughter-in-law. Now I empathise with her, realising how at loss she is - just as I am. I get down on the floor beside her and open my arms. To my relief, she accepts them.

We cry for a good, long while. Her dark hair roams freely as I imagine it had before she and Matthew first shared a bedroom. This symbol reminds me of Reginald's death, and miraculously I summon the knowledge from that loss to comfort Mary here and now.

"When we lose our husbands," I begin, "nothing feels right. We are no longer bound to them by the mortal bond of marriage, for one thing. And in that way...we feel and know that they are forever parted from us."

"Matthew should be here. He wanted so deeply to raise our children, to live at Downton together as a family!" Through these words, Mary's passion speaks great lengths to me; I simultaneously dread and love that. It gives me yet more assurance that this young woman who grieves my husband truly - ardently - loved him.

And she shall still love him, as do I. Perhaps no one can ever stop loving...until one's last breath.

"We all wanted to watch that happen," I reassure her quietly. Rocking my daughter-in-law gently back-and-forth, I somehow remind myself of my new grandchild upstairs. I gaze upon Mary's tired, hurting face and frown. "You must promise me not to hurt yourself again. Matthew loved this -" I squeeze her hands with mine and manage to smile - "and never..._never_ would he want you to act in this way because of him."

We are both silent, hands entwined in the beautiful motherly-daughterly way that is important for us to share. While the reason for my concerns rest on her cheeks and in her eyes, there is one thing that is for certain:

I need not _look_ at her to know that she was my son's pure and steadfast wife. And, in that same way, I need not examine her skewed, grief-stricken countenance to know that she _will_ be a very good mother.

If she loved my son, I rest assured that all these things are true.


	7. Finding White in Black

_Through the eyes of Robert Crawley_

I've promised to hold my grandson for the duration of Matthew's funeral. It hasn't started yet; we've only just arrived at the village church. The building's interior persists to fool me; for it seems that not so long ago, in this very place, Matthew and Mary were wed.

I cannot forget how _white_ everything had been on that marvellous day: cream-coloured roses and lilies that had illuminated the old sanctuary for the nuptial ceremony; delicate ribbons and other decorative items that had accented the occasion.

But all these are vanished from the sturdy walls of what was once a happy atmosphere. In the stead of all the flowers, all the delightful ornaments, all the cheery people is _blackness._

There is nothing that can quite describe how I feel as my eldest daughter enters the church. Her attire is but customary for a widow in mourning, and yet the blackness of her veil and dress cause me to shudder. Mary has never appeared so heartbroken to me.

Breathing in a church before the funeral-succession is rather odd; my eyes trail from left to right, in search of any comforting sight upon which they can rest. None such thing is found, and what startles me above all else is the presence of my wife.

Cora is past crying, I can tell. I force myself to draw nearer to her, but the pallid countenance I behold haunts me. She smiles - at least, it seems that way - and extends her arm in eagerness. Perhaps she feels that I can console her.

I cannot. But it is my duty as her husband to comfort and reassure…that everything will be all right.

Isobel is amongst my wife, along with Edith and Tom. I spot Nanny alongside the west-wall of the sanctuary, little Sybbie in the woman's arms. Suddenly I remember that Mary's son slumbers peacefully in my embrace, which only causes me to envy the little chap. Simultaneously this boy is poor and lucky: his father is deceased, and yet he cannot comprehend the fact.

I am sure he knows - deep down in his smart little mind - but I convince myself that my grandson is unaware as to what this all means: what it means for the shrouded box up at the altar to sleep before all of these living, grieving people; what it means for his dear mother (and my dear daughter) to don clothing of a symbolic hue.

I wonder whether this young human being will ever hear about this day, or about the minor detail that _I_ have assumed the honour of caring for him whilst the funeral ensues. But I suppose Mary will not have the strength - nor the memory - to reveal all these things to the child, because as I look at her whilst she settles into her seat on the front-pew, I realise that all this is a blur to her.

She remains there, unaccompanied and silent, for several minutes. I imagine her dark-brown eyes have maintained perfect contact with Matthew's coffin. God, how has this happened! that I think about and gaze upon the coffin that houses my dead son-in-law. _Matthew!_ That young man with whom I had become well acquainted - so much, in fact, that he'd become my son-in-law.

Cora is behind me. I know this without turning my body, because I feel - and hear - her breathing. Yes, the sanctuary is on the brink of commencing the funeral; and almost everyone has claimed his or her seats. My wife puts an arm on my shoulder, since both of my arms and hands are occupied with my vocation as grandfather. The baby stirs when Cora whispers, "We will sit next to Mary."

And I'd already assumed this, because I must not forget that she is Cora's and my beloved daughter. As I attempt a steady walk down the aisle to the front pew, my prayers ask God to assist me in the following years to be a better father to my daughters. They both need me to be strong. Especially Mary.

Isobel and Tom are seated to the right of my daughters. Cora and I take our places on Mary's left-hand side, and I sit directly adjacent to my daughter. She peeks at me through her mourning-veil; then her eyes gaze upon her son. My daughter catches sight of the freshly shed tears that have only just begun to graze my cheeks. All she can do to acknowledge my emotion is to press her hand against mine, which secures the baby's legs and feet. For the briefest moment, I desire to embrace her.

But the funeral begins, and we are all instructed to stand and turn to the back of the sanctuary.

Although I am about to face the unavoidable reality that my child's husband is dead, I find the minutest bit of comfort - the smallest sliver of _white_ - in Mary's hand, which I now hold tightly along with the baby's tiny body.


	8. Nothing to Impart

_As told by Cora Crawley_

An entire week has passed since Matthew's death. I find myself wondering how everything right with life has so suddenly turned to dust. It boggles my mind that at one moment so short a time ago, Robert and I were elated to hear that our healthy, first-grandson had been delivered. I'd kept my thoughts with Mary - _my_ first child, that precious baby girl who'd entered this world twenty-nine years since - and nothing else crowded my head so intensely as this question:

Is my baby all right?

I wondered whether Mary had experienced the very same tears of joy, confusion, and relief. Joy because of her newborn son - and the sensation of giving birth to your child surpasses every other.

Confusion because God knows all of it felt foreign to Mary, as it had when I'd gazed upon my tiny daughter who'd bawled mercilessly in Robert's shaking arms.

Relief because every twinge of doubt that the delivery would falter had vanished. And I thank The Lord for my daughter's safe and successful child-labour, of course.

The one part round which I cannot wrap my head is this:

_Why did Mary and her son have to lose Matthew that day?_

My ears detect the priest at the front of the church: "I now baptise George Reginald Crawley in the Name of the Father..."

George. She's chosen a name of significance to this country, but not of any relation to the child's father. Perhaps my grandson's second-name serves that purpose, but a large part of me wonders: _why not name him after Matthew?_

Robert squeezes my hand; we watch as the baby's head is dunked into the bowl of water at the baptismal font. George makes not a sound, which is the exact opposite of Baby Mary's reaction to her christening. The priest gives George to Tom, who has been the only available candidate for the child's godfather. Robert does not entirely approve, but my son-in-law deserves more credit than he earns from this family.

He has comforted my daughter beyond comprehension, and I know she appreciates him for that.

Edith stands by Tom - for she is George's godmother - and I catch a glimpse of the tears she's shed on this gloomy autumn day. I still wonder why Mary chose so soon a date for the christening; but then again, she's always valued efficiency in business. And in this circumstance, the christening is exactly that: _business._

Every bone in my body assures me that, were Matthew alive, this would have been a much more beautiful day. I _know_ the essence of the event is about the joy in Christ, but my heart struggles to find confidence in the future for this child. It yearns for a state of ease - one that both Mary and her son can enjoy - but I know this imperfect life never stays perfect for too long.

Matthew's dying on the day his son was born... Well, that's my reassurance. Nothing can remain so wonderful for more than a minute.

Sometimes that minute lingers over the course of years - and certainly I felt a sense of peace when my daughters were blooming into young women - but often there are minutes that fool us, deceiving even the smartest of people into believing that all will continue in such a state of happiness.

The latter has left a stain on our family, and it has haunted Downton.

The christening was not so delightful, nor was it lengthy like Matthew's funeral. Mary wanted it to be short; and I can tell by her look of complete agony that the ordeal tore her yet apart. Robert and I approach her gradually, passing by the godparents as we all walk out of the church.

Only Carson and Anna attended today, upon Mary's specific (and rather genuine) request. They smile sadly at me and my husband as we catch up to our daughter, who has suddenly chosen to pick up the pace. Finally I touch her arm; she looks halfway behind her shoulder and halts. "Mama," she whispers. It sounds as if she's swallowed dry air.

"My darling," I reply, grasping her right hand with my own hands. Robert manages to smile at our daughter. She is quite the statue.

Since she does nothing which suggests the urge to respond, I squeeze her hand and add, "Matthew would be pleased if he were here." My words are shaky, which does nothing positive to reinforce the atmosphere I wanted between me and my daughter. Robert chimes in:

"George Reginald is a good name."

The statue maintains its semblance. Whilst my eyes are focused upon those of my mourning daughter, I hear and faintly watch as Tom and Edith pass us. They have Sybbie and George, the former of whom has beat his mother to vocalisation of any sort. My breathing becomes apparent to me as I watch members of my fragmented family disappear round the corner. Robert and Mary still stand with me, and they both look anywhere but at one another.

I thirst for less tension. "We _all_ love you both: Carson and Anna, Edith, Tom, Isobel -"

"Why hasn't she come?" For the voice belongs to my daughter, and I ashamedly cannot provide an adequate answer. "Mama?" she presses me. I hear Robert exhale rather loudly.

"I am not sure," I lie. Of course Isobel could not attend this afternoon because she is too withered by the death of her only son; and I do not blame her for grieving, no...

But I dread to remember that she is not here. "Perhaps she did not want to spoil it for you," tried Robert. I give him credit for his response, but it cannot fool Mary.

"Perhaps she meant well," mused Mary, "but she's definitely forgotten her place in George's life. I don't care about what I think regarding her absence... Let her only visit Downton for George's sake! I won't mind!"

Mary's voice has somehow managed to echo throughout the inside of the church, which lies a few metres away. I feel myself cringe upon hearing those frequencies bounce back-and-forth in the sanctuary. No need for me to hear them again and again: they were made clear to me the first time they met my ears.

The three of us walk in silence until we turn round the corner. Our chauffeur and several more rest underneath the maple tree on the nearby street. Mary is about to hurry across the way when Robert calls, "Wait."

I see my daughter turn. "What is it?" she asks, her tone as cool as the breeze that viciously sweeps our faces just now. The maple-tree's leaves experience a mild sway in accordance with the wind; I stand upon the grass, awaiting my husband's assertion to Mary as all things round me freeze. My attention is limited to her figure and Robert's.

"Mary, please do not run away from us. It may be tempting to hide, now that all the business has been completed -"

"Has it?" wonders she, taking the initiative to pick up her feet and drag them a few steps farther from us. Robert's eyes widen; he is not finished with our daughter. Mary seems not to reside in our world, and for multiple seconds I stand motionless and without breath as she finishes her journey to the car. Other vehicles inhabit the previously vacant road.

My husband averts his gaze in order to look at me. I can feel the hurt in his eyes, and I can hear the sorrow in his lips. Only his ears remain opaque and neutral.

Because it is my turn to talk, and his to listen. Yet I have nothing to impart.


	9. To Endure Together

_As told sincerely by Tom Branson  
_

I stumble over her when she comes to an abrupt halt in front of me. "I'm so sorry," I apologise, however strange it is for me to do. To my good fortune, my good balance brought me quick recovery; however I can tell Mary has not recovered from the accident.

She hasn't recovered from a good many things, but she will have to move on.

And moving on seems last on her list of things to do.

The widow maintains her deep gaze upon my face; little can I think when she stares at me in such a manner. But her father approaches us from behind.

"Mary, Tom, are you both all right?" Robert's voice sounds scarred - by what, I cannot know - and he is breathing rather rapidly. "We are fine," I respond for the two of us. Mary doesn't argue with my answer; she is too focused upon my father-in-law's figure to bother being angry with me.

Whilst I watch Robert return his daughter's gaze, Mary gulps down her discomposure and addresses her father: "I am the reason for your pain."

My impulse tells me to leave them alone to talk, but my mother-in-law - who has just neared us - tugs gently on my arm. I turn toward her. Her pale complexion reminds me of a ghost.

"Mary needs you," she admits to me. "So does Robert. I would stay with them. I will take care of the children." We avert our eyes from one another to locate Edith, who holds George. My daughter is in the secure arms of Anna; thus I am content.

Nodding to Cora, I promise her that I shall act as a comforting presence to my sister- and father-in-laws. "Thank you," she acknowledges, unsmiling yet sincere.

Oh, how I yearn for Sybil's embrace right now! Everything is sorrowful out here: the shadows of trees; the gloomy, dark sky; the slow gait with which this family and its servants walk, even while we've just gone to a baptism. The chauffeurs' charcoal vehicles haunt me because they were a part of my past. Every little shop round here is closed, since it is Sunday; and so the village resembles no sort of comforting community.

Mary's son starts a round of whimpers and cries; that alone startles me: it emerged from the darkness that is this world in which I live.

A world that I fear I will never come to love. Because too many people are gone from it.

My head turns when I recall my promise to Cora. "My darling, we are all grieving -" Robert manages.

"Yes," interrupts Mary, "you're grieving the death of the 'Mary' you all could endure. The 'Mary' without callousness or sharp retorts; the 'Mary' with character and -"

"Perhaps you're right," blurted Robert, the fumes of anger now over-powering the smoke of grief. "I wish Matthew were here, Mary, and I wish you would bring back _my_ daughter! Where has she gone? Where?"

"Robert, you must control your words," I interfere. My sister-in-law has borne the first set of tears, and her face is hot with guilt. I suppose she believes her father, and that is not good.

I can see - from the corner of my eye - Carson looking at us. His feet appear to be on the verge of motion, but something prevents him from coming to Mary. Focused again on my father-in-law, I reason with him: _"This_ is your daughter. _This_ is Mary. Look at yourselves for a moment! Matthew wouldn't have wanted this, Sybil wouldn't have…" I experience tightness in my throat upon mentioning my deceased wife's name, but this does not hinder my speech. "Your _family_ doesn't want this either. The more we channel this pain into one another, the more damage we'll do the ones we love."

My words are not at their conclusion, but I pause when Robert bursts into tears. He's quiet when he sobs - albeit noticeably hurt whilst he does so - and Mary looks at him. But her face shows no hint of rage; I wait for reconciliation.

My father-in-law speaks first: "I didn't mean any of it, Mary; I am… I am just so bloody devastated by all this…"

"You meant it, Papa, and I agree with you." Mary retains her composure. I doubt it isn't easy for her to manage.

Robert shakes his head. "No, I didn't mean it. You could very well say the same about me, because we are all shaken by this…death."

"Of course we are," responds Mary, trying to sound matter-of-fact. But her voice falters in the last syllable, and in seconds I find myself embracing her wholly. "Oh, Mary," I whisper into her ear. Her head is down against my shoulder, and her heart seems so close to me. For the first time, I feel so much a part of her - and so much a part of this family. Grief can do wonders, good and bad.

"I am so sorry," Robert repeats over and again. I let his daughter disengage from my embrace; she enters his. I finish what I have begun: _"Together_ we must endure this. Isolation - both physical and mental - will tear us apart. I _want_ us all to talk about Sybil; we don't do much of it now, but I think Matthew's parting calls for change. They _deserve_ for us to talk about them. And it will hurt, but then again, it had better."

My smile is only faint, but Mary and Robert notice the alteration in my countenance. I am not usually a very grievous man, but when I am the differences in my features are profound.

It is my sister-in-law who smiles first. God knows how much it cost for her to impart such a thing to me, but the gesture warms me with an amazing intensity. We turn to Robert; he grasps our hands and squeezes them. "We will not sever," he promises.

And I believe him.

* * *

THE END


End file.
